


The Choices Made For Others

by Books_and_Cats_and_Coffee (orphan_account)



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, episode 1X14
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-06-06 15:03:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15197333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Books_and_Cats_and_Coffee
Summary: When Slade goes back for Oliver, a crippling injury leaves him in the captivity of Fyers. Chained and interrogated, Slade stands little chance of making his own escape. As Fyers demands to know Oliver location, the alliance of Yao Fei is called into question, the answer a factor Slade had never considered.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [swingrlm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/swingrlm/gifts).



> The story is separated into two chapters because I finished it in word and it was nineteen pages. So I'm not even going to attempt to deny the amount of alcohol consumption involved in writing this.
> 
> This was requested by swingrlm by a prompt submitted on Tumblr.  
> It is not quite sticking to the prompt which asked for a Shado/Slade pairing to be slid in. I'd like to say I have nothing against Shado's character, I love her character, however, apparently whenever I write Oliver and Slade in the same story I can't seem to get away from the Sladiver. Hopefully, the disappointment will not be too crippling.

Time seemed to freeze as Oliver straightened, taking a step out from behind the stack of crates. Wintergreen lay motionless at the ground by Slade’s feet, blade buried in his eye, blood running down the side of his mask. The Australian turned to look towards the younger man as his foot displaced a pebble, sword down by his side.

The realization that Slade was there, that he had come back _for_ Oliver was slowly sinking in, and the American took a step forward, struggling to find words. The moment was shattered when the sound of an automatic sliced through the air, the rapid shots startingly loud.

Slade crumbled in front of him, the bitten off shout of pain unnaturally frightening for Oliver to hear. He darted forward, bullets riddling the ground around him as he dived next to Australian, reaching out to pull him behind a crate, sheltering both their bodies from fire.

His hand, which had reached around to Slade’s side, felt wet and warm. He didn’t have to look down to know what it was. Slade sank down to one knee, Oliver following his progress, unwilling to let go of his friend.

“You gotta get out of here, kid,” there was something about the lack of usual sharpness to his voice that made Oliver look a little more closely, concern pricking at him.

“I can help you back,” the American argued immediately. “But we need to go now.” This time, he recognized the cynical exasperation in Slade’s gaze.

“There’s a bullet in my knee, I’m not going anywhere,” he said, surprisingly calm. “But you can.” There was a shout from nearby and Slade’s voice lowered into a commanding growl. “Go.” Oliver found himself immobile for several heartbeats, trying to find a way, any way, around the problem. The approaching footsteps were audible now, they were running out of time. “Don’t make this worse,” Slade snarled at him.

“But-” Oliver’s assertion didn’t make it out into the open. A bullet sniped the crate by their heads and Slade’s tone took on a tone Oliver had only heard when he was angry.

“Get. Going.” The two words, snapped out and terse were spoken with such force that Oliver found himself moving almost instinctively. He backed away slowly, staying in cover and the Australian watched him. Once he close to the end of the crates, Slade drew his handgun, levelling it over the boxes in front of him and firing off several shots.

Using the cover it provided, Oliver ran, head down, into the woods nearby. He felt a bullet whizz past his sleeve, actually pulling at the material before he lunged over a fallen trunk, nearly tripping as he landed awkwardly.

Several yards away, Slade spared a glance over his shoulder, making sure his companion had made it into safety. The explosions coupled with panicked alarms had drawn Fyers’ men to the place like moths to a light. He was completely surrounded, all of them too nervous to try making a move, but they had the upper hand.

He kept his back to the crate, making sure none of them would try to sneak around the side and attack him, occasionally pushing himself up to snap off a few shots at the mercenaries. He would only last as long as his magazine, unless they hit him before that.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a man break cover, darting out to his side. Slade spent two bullets, but the man dived flat to the ground, covered before the Australian could kill him. It was only when pain erupted in his arm that he realized the man had merely been a decoy, allowing one of his friends to get a free shot.

Slade remembered a mission that sent him to Africa some years ago, where he had seen a massive boar surrounded by painted hunting dogs. The boar was old, its movements slow and the dogs took turns darting in to rip at its flank, frustrating the beast into charging. They would avoid the attack and begin again, slowly tiring the boar out until they all pounced.

He found some humor in the fact he had just compared himself to an old boar.

Another man darted from cover, this time, Slade held his fire, turning to shoot instead at the man who peeked out from behind a truck. His bullet slammed into the hood, causing the mercenary to duck down once more. He wasn’t sure how many shots he had left, probably under five. He moved his leg carefully, trying to get a little more comfortable with the bullet still lodged in his knee.

The mercenaries’ shots had ceased, and the silence seemed eerie, expectant. Slade looked through a crack in the crates, seeing no sign of movement on the other side. He let out a slow breath, feeling blood slide down his arm.

The sudden volley dragged a curse from his lips as he instinctively ducked down, feeling the crates move under the rapid fire. Clearly, Fyers didn’t consider whatever was in them worth enough to be concerned about. He braced himself to fire off two shots at the mercenaries he could see, knowing at least one of the bullets struck true.

But that victory was short-lived as a bullet slammed all the way through the crate next to Slade’s head. He flattened himself to the ground, leg and arm both screaming in protest. The shots slowed, and he risked straightened only to get nicked by a bullet on his left side, dropping down flat once more. A man darted out to his right and Slade rolled quickly to point his gun, squeezing the trigger.

_Click._

The mercenary sighted on the weakness immediately, and his shout rung through the air. The Australian pushed himself up, tossing away his handgun in preference of his sword. Within a moment, Slade was in the middle of a tight semicircle, guns trained on him. He lifted his sword in front of him, feeling his leg shake as he forced it to hold his weight. Several of them took a step forward, and he tensed, ready for a fight.

In hindsight, he should have never trusted the crates to continue to protect him. Pushed from the other side, one of them slammed into his back, knocking him off balance and Slade stumbled forward a step. His moment of off-balance cost him, one of the mercenaries kicking him in his injured knee and the limb crumbled like paper.

Slade landed on his knees, grunting at the pain it caused. One arm down by his side, he still held his sword straight, ready for an attack. The mercenaries didn’t lower their weapons, gun barrels unwavering as they stared at him.

“Prepared to surrender, Mr. Wilson?” he didn’t have to look to recognize the voice. Two of the mercenaries stepped to the side, and Edward Fyers walked into the space, FN Five-seveN in hand though temporarily lowered. Slade knew it wasn’t likely to stay that way should he act aggressively. “After all, I think we can agree this is not going your way.”

He was so close. If Slade just pushed himself off of the ground, sliding his blade in between Fyers ribs…he would be shot before he was halfway standing. The cold grey eyes stayed on him, shrewd and calculating as Slade slowly moved, setting his sword on the ground.

Immediately, four mercenaries swarmed him, his hands yanked behind him and secured tightly. Slade gritted his teeth, internalizing any noise as his arm throbbed. He was pulled to his feet, held in place but given no support. Fyers took several steps forward, eyes alight with a sadistic victory.

“A smart move,” he remarked. “I appreciate your cooperation, truly. However, you’ve been quite the obstacle ever since showing up.” He gestured to the mercenary who had picked up Slade’s sword and the man stepped over to him, offering the weapon. Fyers took it, studying the length. “We’ll have to keep you from making any more trouble.”

It sounded like a permanent threat, and the Australian refused to even flinch as the sword twisted in front of him, Fyers seeming intrigued by the simple design. He wasn’t, Slade knew, it was a ploy, a way to make him more nervous. Only, he refused to let it work. The steel came within an inch of his face, and Slade remained impassive.

“Where is your young…” Fyers gave an exaggerated hesitation, drawing a twinge of anger from Slade. “ _Protégé_?” he said it in a mocking way, as if the word gave him some sort of amusement to hear. The Australian didn’t reply, meeting his gaze without blinking.

Fyers looked away first, eyes meeting someone else’s as he gave a small nod and Slade was unable to hold in the grunt as the butt of a rifle slammed into his solar plexus, knocking the air out of his lungs. Despite his stubbornness, the blow bent him over, dragging air back into his lungs. Before he could recover, another blow smashed into his injured knee, he collapsed as his body was battered unmercifully, ribs, back and chest receiving the majority of the hits.

One caught his face, splitting his cheek open in a stinging wound. After a couple minutes, they stopped, obviously halted by some unseen gesture Fyers had given. Slade exhaled slowly, controlling his breathing. Fyers crouched down in front of him, voice lowered from its previous mocking tone.

“Understand one thing; Wintergreen was a valuable asset, one you killed and for that inconvenience, you will pay. Your young friend, however,” Fyers paused, giving a small shrug. Slade glared unspoken fury at him. “I have nothing against him. Take away the spoilt habits of a rich man’s son, he is an honorable person. If you reveal his location, he will not be harmed. He will be held here, of course, imprisoned, but given food, water, treatment.”

Slade barely managed to force out the skeptical noise, seeing way Fyers eyes darkened in anger. The man’s next words were ice cold.

“If you say nothing, when he is found, and believe me, he will be, I will allow my men to torture him in whatever way they wish. After that, presuming he survives, a bone will be broken for each question you did not answer and you will die the grave he will die in.” It was not a hollow threat, Slade knew, but he also knew that Fyers would be unwilling to let anyone who knew of his operation survive. He didn’t respond, and Fyers straightened abruptly, stepping away.

“Tether him.” Fyers snapped the order and Slade was forced to his feet once more, shoved unceremoniously forward as the two mercenaries steered him into the center of the camp. There was a small clear area there, judging from the thick pole set in the ground, some type of shelter had temporarily been rigged in the space.

A gun was held on him as one of the mercenaries collected a length of heavy grade chain. Slade was forced to kneel facing the pole as the man walked up to him. The Australian eyed him warily, unable to move as he was still at gun point.

The metal settled around his neck and Slade stiffened. A gun barrel slammed into the side of his head, warning him against moving, and Slade felt the chain tighten, the _click_ of a latch audible. It tugged at his neck as the man attached it to the pull, the weight, heavy and unsettling.

The man shoved his shoulders forward, checking the ropes around his wrist and attaching zip ties as tight as possible without cutting off circulation. Slade hated everything about his position. He had no ready escape, no plan.

The mercenary jabbed his rifle barrel into the wound in the Australian’s arm, the sudden agony chasing away Slade’s other thoughts. He snarled a wordless curse at the man which earned him another blow across the side of his head. His knee still throbbed, he could feel dirt and grit pressing into the wound and Slade silently accepted the fact it would become infected. There wasn’t anything he could do to counter that.

The men stepped away, and for a moment, Slade thought he might actually be left alone. It was a dumb thing to even consider. He heard dirt shift as people approached, the rope was too taunt for him to turn his body and even turning his head far enough to see behind him proved difficult.

Without visible strain, he couldn’t see much except the vague outline of the side of someone’s body and he committed himself to wait. The minute or so that passed seemed to stretch far longer than it truly was but eventually, Fyers was in front of him, hands clasped behind his back in a show of agonizing arrogance.

God, he wanted to shoot the man.

Slade was conscious of the fact there was another man standing behind him now, and he hid the discomfort that knowledge twisted inside him. Even so, he knew Fyers was totally aware, the sadistic victory in his eyes proved that.

“I’ve already made your position clear,” he said. Slade didn’t waste his breath with a response. He was fully aware of the clusterfuck he had basically dived head first into, and a reminder of what he’d done wasn’t necessary.

The sudden pressure on his back drew a subtle flinch even as Slade tried to hide it. He wasn’t keen on admitting any anxiety that the position of being so out of control, so fucking _helpless_ , inevitably sowed. He felt the blade of a knife slice thinly into his skin as his vest and shirt were carelessly hacked away.

The cuts were superficial, the result of the messy slashing, and the stinging discomfort they caused was a shadowy promise of the pain he knew would come. He focused instead on exhaling slowly through his nose, breathing in just as gradually, keeping his heartbeat regulated. Fyers continued to watch him, and Slade refused to let his gaze drop.

The first connection of leather to his unprotected skin caught him by surprise, and he jerked forward, grunt escaping his chest. The pain seemed to explode from the contact, lingering with a burning agony long after the whip itself was gone. It seemed the leather had scarcely been pulled away when it cracked against his back again. _Breath in. Breath out._

But there was no pattern he could focus on. No rhythm to follow. The blows were dealt in a random fashion, some immediately after others, some allowing long seconds to pass. It was intentional. If he knew when to expect the next blow, he could try to regulate his breathing in accordance.

Now, however, he was surprised by every blow, breath snatched away. His jaw locked from his determination to stay silent, teeth clenched tightly together. His arms, still tied behind his back, took the blow of several lashes.

He didn’t know how many times the whip had fallen, what count he had initially started, trying to set it to a rhythm had fallen away sometime around eighteen. He wasn’t even aware that his head had dropped, eyes staring at the ground he barely saw.

Slade’s entire world was pain. The only thing he was conscious of was the sheer agony that exploded across his back. Subconsciously, his hands twisted against their bindings, the zip ties slicing into his wrists. His breaths were erratic, shallow inhales that increased his heartrate drastically.

Mercifully, there was a lapse. Through a haze of pain, he heard footsteps behind him as the man took several steps. Letting out his breath slowly, Slade forced his gaze up to see Fyers still standing in front of him.

“How do you see this ending, Mr. Wilson? You’re outnumbered. Your own superiors have written you off,” it was all true, Slade was well aware. And yet, it still changed nothing. The fight wasn’t over, and Slade refused to give it up. “Keep that in mind.” Fyers looked past him, speaking to the man behind the Australian. “Continue.”

He turned, walking away just as the whip descended once again.

 

Oliver had not made it back to the fuselage. He was smart enough to retreat into the forest far enough to not be seen, taking cover in a thick outcrop some distance away. Once there, he sank down into the cover of the bushes.

What now? He couldn’t believe how badly things seemed to get messed up. It was the second he had run and left his companion in danger. First Yao Fei, now Slade. He sank his head into his hands. The worst part was he didn’t have any way to help Slade.

Or did he? Oliver sat still, wracking his brains for any option. What would Slade do? Well, that didn’t help. What Slade was capable of doing was utter suicide for Oliver. He needed to plan. What could he do? What resources did he have? _Resources._ He remembered Slade stressing the word multiple times.

He had a knife. ( _They_ had many knives. And guns. Maybe even grenades). He had a map of the island. (They undoubtedly had several). He had himself. (They had trained soldiers, a lot of them). Oliver held in a groan, clenching his fists. There had to be something.

Yao Fei. He denied the idea almost immediately. Clearly, the man had sided with Fyers. Or had he? He hadn’t given up Slade’s location, but he had known it. Oliver had to take that chance, it was the only option.

 

The shock of cold water and stinging agony of salt water on his shredded skin brought Slade out of unconsciousness with a brutal suddenness. He coughed up what liquid had come through his nose and mouth, the rough movements pulling painfully at his injuries.

Attempting to bling the water out of his eyes, Slade moved too quickly, trying to stand, the sudden jerk at his neck nearly choked him, reminding him of his position. Vision still blurred, he moved slowly. He had passed out against the pole, the wood stopping him from falling and strangling on the rope.

He didn’t find any comfort in the last thought.

As Slade tried to orient himself, vision slowly clearing, he moved his arms as discretely as he could. The gashes from the ties had already scabbed, the blood drying and clotting the zip ties to the cuts. The limbs already felt numb, and he twisted his fingers, trying to get some of the circulation to return.

Finally, able to see clearly, he looked around him. There was no one set to watch him but placed as he was in the middle of the camp, he had no easy exit. The sun glared down at him, the heat slowly building as Slade had nothing to offer shade.

Closing his eyes and warding off the pain, he focused instead on figuring out how long he had been there. When he had gone back for Oliver it had been early morning, scarcely o-eight hundred. Judging from the position of the sun, it was now around fourteen hundred hours.

That meant almost a full six hours had passed. Slade closed his eyes again. It was shorter than he had thought. He shifted as much as he could, trying to ease some of the strain from staying in the same kneeling position. He took the opportunity of being left alone to attempt to straighten his legs without standing.

His right, the uninjured one, moved easily, stretching away some of the stiffness. However, when he tried to move his left, agony lanced through the limb, and he found his knee had locked into place. Hissing through his teeth, Slade gave up, unwilling to damage the joint further.

Instead, he leaned his weight against the pole, trying to relieve his leg, head bowed against the heat of the sun.

 

Two patrols passed Oliver, each time the American barely managing to hide before they saw him. His heart hammered in his chest, hands shaking with nerves and the knowledge he was entirely left to his own devices. He was determined to not get caught, if only to defend what Slade had done.

But it was all so slow. Oliver was frustrated with the lack of progress he was making. What use did he actually have? What could he achieve? It was past noon, the sun beginning its westerly descent. As he slid around a cropping of trees, Oliver heard the telltale click of a gun and flung himself into the bushes as a bullet nicked the bark behind him. Hurriedly, he worked his knife out of its sheath.

Peaking out, he saw only one man, but the sound of the shot had been loud. It was bound to get someone’s attention. The guard was hesitating to fire again, eyes scanning the cropping and trying to get a clear shot. Without thinking, the American used the opportunity.

He jumped out of cover, bear hugging the man’s legs and they both tumbled to the ground. The man reacted quickly, kicking Oliver’s stomach. The American had already been prepared, however, and his knife slid into the man’s throat with an unsettling lack of resistance. The soldier thrashed, eyes wide and staring as blood _bubbled_ from the thick cut.

In a second, it was all over. Oliver swayed on his feet, feeling sick. He forced himself to bend down, pulling the man into cover. Quickly, trying not to look at the gaping wound, he stripped the dark clothes off of the corpse, disguising himself and taking the man’s weapons.

His mask had been caught by the knife, blood soaking the lower part, and Oliver cut away what he dared before pulling it over his head. He had risked sneaking into Fyers came like this once before, and he realized it wouldn’t work any better than the last time. At least now, he felt safer if he ran into a patrol.

Or at least, that was what he told himself as he heard a voice shout for his attention some distance away.

 

Four hours later and he was beginning to feel the first effects of dehydration. It was in the early vestiges of fall, and while the temperature had dropped from summer highs, hours of staying under the sun without protection or water was taking its toll.

A blowfly buzzed his ear, its drone of noise loud against the sounds of camp he had already grown accustomed to. For the past hours, Slade had been ignored, the only time any of Fyers men came close was when he showed signs of slipping into sleep. The ground around him had turned to mud with three buckets worth of salt water.

His shoulders burned with the strain of having his hands tied in the same position for so long. His neck was sore from the burden of the chain around it. Slade didn’t allow himself a moment of pity. He saw no escape from his position, every plan he had mentally gone over he had thrown away for multiple holes.

His thoughts turned to Oliver, the single thing he had struggled to _not_ think about for the past few hours. He knew the kid had not been caught. If he had been, Fyers would have paraded the fact in front of Slade. Not for the first time, he cursed the fact that the kid had ever gotten messed up in this mess to begin with.

It had to be ironic, that the playboy son of a billionaire was the most morally good person on the entire floating pile of dirt that called itself an island. But he was. The kid who refused to be bribed to give up a ‘friend’. The kid who had the annoying habit of deciding people were ‘friends’.

Because no matter how many times Slade hit him with a stick in the name of training, yelled at him for being an idiot or made some despairing remark about his company as a whole. The kid still followed him around like a motherless colt. He still trusted Slade.

And at some point, the Australian realized he had simply accepted the fact he would willingly step into the line of fire for the kid. He was fairly sure that made him an idiot as well.

The crunch of dirt came from behind him, and Slade chased away his thoughts of Oliver as if they were some visible risk. The man stopped, still out of view but dangerously close. Breathing lightly, Slade squared his shoulders, eyes fixing on a natural crack in the wood of the pole in front of him.

Even with his preparation, the electric shock that vibrated through his body dragged half of a curse out of the Australian. He recognized the instrument immediately. High voltage but a lower current, more pain with a little less of a risk of killing the subject.

He had faced worse. Slade barely had time to recover when he felt another jolt, muscles contracting in immediate response. He gritted his teeth. He could outlast this as well.

 

Fuck every plan he had tried to think up. Oliver trailed casually after the patrol, swearing inwardly as they filed back into camp. Fortunately, he had convinced the patrol leader with the excuse his weapon had malfunctioned. Unfortunately, the man had insisted he come with their group.

He was far beyond the point of ‘behind enemy lines’ now. He took the opportunity to look around the camp, desperate to find any sign of Slade. He didn’t see any hint that could direct him towards the Australian. Looking ahead, he saw the men’s attention was not focused on him and quietly slipped into a random tent, looking around quickly to make sure it was empty.

The inside was simple and militant, and Oliver rummaged around quickly, stealing what supplies would come in useful. Peaking out of the flap, he stepped out carefully, letting it drop behind him. Yao Fei or Slade, he had to find one of them as soon as possible.

He had just started further towards the center of the camp when someone shouted at the edge of the tents. Heart thudding painfully, Oliver turned in that direction, his stomach clenched as he heard the frantic words yelled out as an alarm.

“Norman’s dead!” he didn’t have to wonder who ‘Norman’ was. Turning, he made it to the tree line in less than a minute, sprinting through the overgrown bushes and plants.

 

It was less than ten minutes later when the shocks stopped abruptly. Slade registered shouts and heard the man behind him turn, obviously caught up in whatever the other mercenary was shouting. A moment later, the Australian was alone.

He refused to even consider the obvious reason for the shouts and man leaving, choosing instead to pull at the zip ties, the plastic ripping through his scabbed cuts. Despite the chain, Slade tried to look around him, ignoring the choking pain as he did so.  The shadows were getting longer as evening came on, and something told him night would be no more restful than the day.

 

It was nearly an hour later when everything had settled from whatever the ruckus had been. Slade had not been ‘visited’ since. Darkness seeped over the camp, and a mercenary walked near him, stationing himself not far away.

Trying to find a more comfortable position, Slade pulled his knees out of the mud, grimacing at the squelching sensation. He couldn’t lower his head or ignore the pain and actually sleep. But the exhaustion he felt was strong enough to almost take over. His eyelids dropped shut, weariness creeping in.

He was just on the brink of sleep when his muscles in his back and thigs, relaxing instinctively, gave out. He collapsed sideward but the chain stopped his descent abruptly. The sudden asphyxiation cleared away any drowsiness and the Australian struggled back upright, throat bruised from the sudden jerk.

He leaned his weight against the pole but knew fully well that there was no position he could rely on that wouldn’t end up in strangulation. His knee and arm throbbed with every heartbeat. His back screamed in agony, shoulders burning. Relief wouldn’t come during the night.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Someone was approaching, steps abrupt and angry.

Fyers walked around in front to glare down at the Australian, disdain and fury battling for dominance on his face. Slade glared back, wondering if it was even possible for his expression to show the depth of hatred he felt for the man. Despite his attempt at insolence, he swayed on his knees, using the pole to keep himself from falling over once again.

“It seems your young friend decided to stick close to camp,” he commented. Slade ignored the sudden stone that dropped into his chest. Whether the mercenary noticed it was impossible to tell. “He killed one of my men, in fact.” The sense of unease was lessened by the sudden pride he felt. “He seems to be taking after your troublesome habits.”

“It’s more entertaining than you’d think,” Slade voice cracked in his throat with dryness, but the sarcasm in his words were still evident. He saw the flash of irritation in Fyers eyes and felt a small twist of satisfaction. For a long moment, the man regarded him in silence before he turned to call out to a mercenary not far away.

“Bring him here.” The order was sharp and crisply spoken, the man Fyers spoke to immediately turned beckoning to his companion and they both set off between tents. Refusing to let his confusion show, Slade kept his gaze on Fyers, wondering what the man had planned. Who had he sent them off to bring? It couldn’t be Oliver, could it?

But a moment later, his unspoken question was answered, and relief passed through Slade. The two mercenaries returned, Yao Fei walking between them, escorted but not restrained. His face was as impassive as ever, eyes going first from Fyers then briefly passing over Slade without any flicker of emotion.

The Australian resisted the urge to try to draw himself up taller. The position he was forced to maintain was not only painful, but degrading. He had not spoken to the Chinese agent since they had last parted ways, after one of Fyers’ patrols had nearly caught them.

It had been a mutual agreement they should split up, both vanishing in different directions. The next time Slade had seen him, Yao Fei was dressed as one of Fyers’ men, obeying orders without any disguise to suggest he was undercover.

Slade was not a fool. He was aware that Yao Fei knew the exact location of the fuselage. He also knew it meant he hadn’t told Fyers. But at the same time, he didn’t understand why the Chinese agent had been so quick to switch alliances. Despite the logical side of Slade, the part of him that surveyed the secrecy Yao Fei had kept, he still didn’t trust the man. Even less than he had upon their first meeting.

“Mr. Wilson has been quite stubborn about revealing the location of his young friend,” Fyers turned away from him them, speaking to Yao Fei directly. “Perhaps you know.” Immediately, Slade turned to stare at the Chinese agent, trying furiously to relay a message without speaking. He did know, would he give Oliver up?

Once again, Yao Fei looked at him, his face so impersonal and unreadable that Slade felt a surge of frustration. Without any sign, he looked away again, gaze settling on Fyers as he took several long seconds to consider the question.

“No.”

Slade barely managed to hold in his exhale, choosing instead to look towards the ground until he knew his expression was blank once more. When he looked up again, Fyers and Yao Fei were locked in each other’s gaze, the former challenging. Finally, he spoke again.

“How unfortunate,” he said, voice far too calm. “It seemed so likely you would. It would be so…tragic if you knew and lied, wouldn’t it?” He knew. There was no question of the fact, it was blatantly obvious, and Slade saw something in Yao Fei’s expression that looked suspiciously like…fear?

What did he have to be afraid about? Whatever it was, Fyers lips twisted into the sadistic ghost of a smile. Was that a threat? Slade knew enough to recognize blackmail when he saw it. But what could Fyers use to threaten Yao Fei?

“I do not know,” the response was quiet, a note of something that sounded suspiciously like desperation buried underneath its usual calm. Fyers sighed in an exaggerated manner.

“Disappointing,” he said. “But you can still assist us in finding him.” He beckoned, and a mercenary came forward, carrying the familiar bow and quiver. Fyers took them, offering both to Yao Fei reached forward, reluctance obvious as he took the weapon.

Yao Fei was a master tracker, with an instinctive skill in the forest that Slade had never seen matched or even rivalled anywhere else. There was no question of _if_ he could find Oliver, but rather, _when_.

Slade watched carefully, remaining silent as the Chinese agent slid the quiver over his shoulder, the movement instinctive. He checked the strap, tightened it and strung his bow, holding one end behind his heel to bend the wood. Once finished, he straightened.

“Who am I to go with?” he asked, Fyers immediately shook his head.

“Oh no, you’re not to join a patrol,” he said, hands folding behind his back. He turned to face Slade, the same merciless expression twisting his lips. “You’re to help with our questioning.”

 

Oliver had forced himself to ignore his personal hatred some time ago. It didn’t mean it was gone, he just realized it had no purpose. Like pity, there was no place for it in such an emergency. He had barely slept that night, catching only an hour’s worth of rest in the boughs of an oak before an owl’s screech had awakened him.

When the panic of finding Norman dead had settled, the American risked sneaking closer into the camp, settling on a cliff half a klick away. He kept constant watch on the camp, using a pair of field glasses he had taken off the dead Norman. The cliff was not high enough for him to see the entire camp, and the tents and vehicles were packed together tightly.

Even so, he saw Yao Fei exit a tent, nearly falling from his perch in sudden excitement as he jerked around to watch the man. Two mercenaries spoke with him, gesturing back towards the middle of the camp and the Chinese agent gave a nod, walking between them. A few moments later, they were out of sight, but Oliver felt certain he knew Slade was being held.

Whatever good that did. But either way he was done with this useless skirting about.

 

Slade had come to terms with the idea of dying on the godforsaken island some time ago. Now, he only hoped he took the sadistic smug bastard named Edward Fyers with him. The silence was tense after the mercenary spoke his order, Yao Fei staring at him with the closest thing to disbelief Slade had ever seen on his face.

“You have your bow, I’d imagine you know enough to cause substantial pain and not death,” Fyers spoke again, interrupting the pause.

“I will not torture any man,” Yao Fei spoke with a calm conviction, and yet Fyers didn’t seem put off, on the contrary, he seemed amused.

“Would you prefer I turn to…other motives encourage you and Mr. Wilson to talk?” he asked. Yao Fei’s expression hardened and he turned to face Slade, one hand drawing an arrow from his quiver. He set the nock to the bowstring, the shaft of the arrow settling along the bow. But then, he hesitated, turning to look at Fyers once more.

The mercenary gave a mocking gesture, sweeping his hand forward in an invitation. Raising the weapon, Yao Fei eased it back, and Slade stared down the shaft of the arrow without flinching. Fyers had given instruction to not kill, and this close Slade knew a single movement on his part might result a fatal accident. A moment later, Yao Fei’s fingers slipped off the string.

It was the first time Slade was unable to hold in his shouted cry as the flint head punched through the skin of his chest, rough design ripping a jagged hole just under his right shoulder. The force behind the arrow sent it deep, and his body jerked at the drive.

Fyers paced forward as Slade panted, trying to regain some of his composure. He lost it against at sudden agony that came from the arrow being pulled out, tearing through more skin as it exited through the same entry. Blood tricked down freely, dripping down onto the dirt below.

Battling down the hazy pain and sudden nausea (a response he was more than familiar with) Slade managed to look up again. Yao Fei’s expression was tight, usual mask replaced with a look of horrified conflict. Fyers, on the other hand, looked delighted.

“Nine months,” he said conversationally. “You have been on this island for nine months, Mr. Wilson. It seems such a long time, doesn’t it?” Slade didn’t reply. “Nine arrows.” He mused, looking towards Yao Fei. “An arrow for each month, that seems fair, doesn’t it?” The Chinese archer looked sick.

“He will die,” he said. Fyers walked past, dropping the arrow he held into the dirt.

“Make sure he doesn’t.”

 

Oliver was close to the camp when he heard the agonized shout. The voice was so definitely _Slade_ that he was by the first canvas tent before logic kicked in and he barely managed to avoid capture by a passing mercenary. He hid behind some crates, struggling to stay still as he battled his want to rush in.

There was _nothing_ he could do. Not like this. But the idea that Slade was being tortured and so close, wrecked Oliver’s insides. He clenched his hands shut, find Yao Fei, that was the first thing he had to do.

 

His world was a haze of pain. He wasn’t even aware of his surroundings anymore. Collapsed against the pole, his only support, Slade barely managed to keep breathing, on the brink of passing into the sweet relief of unconsciousness. He didn’t see the exchange that happened right in front of him.

Fyers watched the Australian as Yao Fei’s bow and quiver were taken. The Chinese archer stared at the mercenary with a barely concealed loathing, something that didn’t seem to bother Fyers at all.

“Do you want him dead?” Yao Fei snapped. “He will die like this.” The mercenary sighed bending down to study the jagged holes of the arrow wounds. Behind Yao Fei, his two men waited expectantly.  Straightening again, he beckoned to them.

“I suppose he can’t die yet,” the two men stepped forward on either side of Yao Fei once again. “How fortunate we have a student from medical school visiting us.” The panic in Yao Fei’s expression was clearly visible, but he was held from either side, marched away from the space as Fyers shouted orders to another two nearby.

 

Oliver heard the approach of three people and flattened himself to the inside of the tent, waiting in silence as he heard them stop just outside. Soon enough, Yao Fei ducked in, and the other two wandered away.

As soon as he judged them out of hearing, Oliver moved closer, knife out in front of him. Later, he would come to realize the significance of being able to sneak up on the Chinese archer and understand just how distracted he was.

But in the moment, caught up in his mission, Oliver focused on getting close enough to press the tip of the knife against his back, other hand on the shoulder just like Slade had instructed. Yao Fei stiffened immediately, but didn’t turn, and Oliver was the one to talk.

“Where’s-” the words died in his mouth as he saw the blood staining the other man’s hands. Nausea rose inside of him, and his vision narrowed. Somehow, the Chinese archer must have known what he had seen. Undoubtedly, he had recognized Oliver’s voice as well.

He didn’t try to attack. Even when Oliver didn’t lower his guard, staying still with the blade point digging into the other man’s spine. Cold fury washed over him and his knife hand twitched noticeably. But confusion muddled him enough to stop the action he would have later regretted.

“Knife down,” Yao Fei spoke calmly, but Oliver didn’t listen, remaining in his same position. “He is alive.” His weapon dropped an inch, away from the archer’s back. “I did not harm him willingly.” There was an honest conviction that caused Oliver shift uncertainty. Slade would call him a gullible idiot. But the knife was no longer threatening, and Yao Fei turned to face him. “I can explain.”

Explain what? Oliver stared at him mutely, not understanding. But slowly, he sank down, legs crossing as Yao Fei reached into a rough pocket sewn on the inside of his vest. He pulled out a rough pouch and opened it to reveal a cord with a simple wooden pendant on the end, shaped like a circle. There were two beads high on each side, the cord fed through and wrapped around to keep them secure.

He held it out to Oliver, holding it as if it were some sacred treasure and the American took it with the same care, not knowing why but staring down at it. Yao Fei tapped a finger against the pendant.

“That belong to my daughter,” he said. Oliver looked up at him sharply. “She came after I vanished. Look for me. Fyers captured her.” He didn’t _want_ it to make sense. But it did. Every time Yao Fei had done something to contradict his previous actions. Oliver felt even worse now. He held the necklace back out to Yao Fei who took it reverently, returning it to its pouch, hiding it away once more.

“I’m-” Oliver wracked his brain, not knowing how to respond. “Sorry.” The Chinese archer shook his head.

“She is with Slade,” he made a vague gesture. “Treating wounds. If there is distraction large enough, we can get them both.” Oliver set his elbows on his knees, chin in his hands.

“Where are they?” he asked.

“The middle of camp,” came the grim response.

“That’s going to be some distraction.”

 

Cold water splashed over him. By this point, Slade was so far gone he barely managed a startled intake of breath. His eyes cracked, seeing the booted feet walk by, bucket swinging by the dark pants. His mind barely registered the confusion as another pair of legs stopped directly in front of him. Small boots, combat pants hanging loose and ill-fitting. The knees bent as the owner crouched, and he felt something warm gently push his chin off of his chest.

He flinched away, the violent movement more instinctive than anything else. The hand withdrew, and Slade tried to stabilize himself. He was vaguely aware of voices above him, one too soft and fluent to be real.

“I cannot treat him here,” there was a steel note to the words. “I need dry ground, better yet, covered.” There was an interrupted murmur as one of the mercenaries tried arguing. “Do you want him to die of infection?”

“No,” the reply was surly.

“Then take him to a dry location and untie his arms.”

“The prisoner is not to be untied!” the man objected immediately.

“What’s he going to do? His arms need circulation, you can retie him once I’m finished.” The mercenary must have given in, because Slade felt the weight around his neck drop, and he was hauled unceremoniously to his feet.

Swaying in place, he tried to keep track of his surroundings as he was half dragged into a tent and dropped to the tarp covered ground. His hands were suddenly free and dropped in front of him as he leaned forward, almost falling face first into the ground. Someone tried supporting him, holding his shoulders, and blearily Slade tried to focus his eyes, staring about him.

“Sit down, legs in front,” it was the same, smooth quiet voice. Like water rippling over stones. It didn’t make sense. As his surroundings came into focus, the woman did to. There was something familiar about her eyes that Slade couldn’t quite place, but he stared at her intently, as if that should reveal the answer. She applied pressure to his shoulders again, gentle but firm. “Sit.”

Mindlessly, he did so, giving a low grunt at the pain it caused. She moved around to his back and Slade stiffened, jerking around to keep her in his sight. The woman stopped, soft brown eyes flickering up into his face, one hand paused, holding a cloth in the space between them. She waited for a long moment, and Slade watched her cautiously. He took the opportunity to study her features, trying to recognize her.

She had a sharp nose, and low but pronounced cheekbones. Her features, slim and evenly proportioned, seemed a jolt against the harsh appearance of the island. As Slade made no move, her hand twitched towards him again. He let out a low noise not unlike a growl, eyes narrowed.

“I’m trying to help,” there wasn’t even a note of impatience. Gently, she reached forward, this time, he stayed still. The warm cloth passed over a wound and he snapped away from the sting. She didn’t follow, waiting, poised on her knees for him to make the decision himself. Slade’s mind was foggy and unclear, but he forced himself to relax, moving forward slightly and not flinching as the cloth cleaned the wound again.

“Who are you?” it hurt to speak, nearly as much as it hurt to breath, but he needed to know. Why was she here? Was she actually real?

“My name is Shado,” she cast a glance behind her, quick, subtle and leaned in close to his arm, cleaning another wound. “I am Yao Fei’s daughter.”

That did more to drag him back to full reality than any cold water. “ _What_?” He couldn’t have shouted if he tried, but the sincerity behind his voice conveyed the message. She cast him a warning look, responding quietly

“Fyers has been using me as leverage against,” there was bitterness when she said the word _using_. Slade looked away, the puzzle piece falling into place. She continued cleaning, often pausing to rinse the cloth in a bucket. After that she took out a small brown bottle. “This’ll hurt.” The sting of the cleaning alcohol was intense, and Slade closed his hands.

“Better than the last guy, at least you give a warning,” he muttered in a morbid attempt at humor. Her lips twitched wryly.

“He’s lost too much blood,” she said, looking away from him. “Tell Fyers, if he wants him alive, he needs at least a day to recover.” The mercenary she spoke to look disdainful, and Slade decided to not point out the obvious fact that Fyers would never even hear the message. “I’m going to have to stitch some of these shut.” She was speaking to him again, dotting the cleaning alcohol to the arrow wounds.

Without waiting for a response, she shifted to study the bullet in his leg, reaching into her small box to pull out a pair of tweezers. Slade postponed the words she opened her mouth to say.

“I’m well aware it’ll hurt,” he said. She cast him a glance.

“Don’t flinch.” Her movements were deft and professional, withdrawing the bullet within a few seconds. Even so, the seconds were long and agonizing for Slade as he did his best to hold still, trying not to lash out. She did the same to his arm, that hurting a little less and turned to collect several rolls of bandages, a needle and thin, silk thread.

That, at least, was easier to sit through. The woman, Shado, fell into a rhythm immediately, and Slade breathed out with the pain. It was over surprisingly quickly. She cleaned the cuts on his wrists and moved her supplies back into the box. The mercenary came forward, pulling Slade’s hands back behind him. The Australian winced but condoned the movement. A little distracted as a foreign smell passed his sense.

“He needs water,” Shado spoke abruptly. The mercenary cast her a warning look.

“He needs to answer questions,” the man replied coldly. Once again, Slade noticed the smell. It was a strange, acrid but not unpleasant aroma.

“Dehydration may be deadly,” she argued. “Do you want him dead before he answers your questions?” The realization of what it was slowly clicked in Slade’s mind, and he frowned, the question _why_ taking longer for him to figure out.

“We’re not wasting supplies,” the mercenary.

“No, you’re burning it,” Slade commented dryly. The man froze, staring at him as the smell of smoke and burning cloth seeped through the tent. Angrily, the man lashed out with his rifle, slamming it into the side of Slade’s head and sending him over sideward. He grabbed Shado’s arm, pushing her roughly.

“Come on!” she stumbled forward, towards the tent flap just as several mercenaries rushed past it, most of them shouting.

“FIRE! FIRE!” The man holding Shado stepped back, surprised for a moment and that moment was his undoing. The woman swung her free hand to catch his rifle, swinging it up as she kneed him in the groin. As the man bent over in pain, she swung an elbow to his face, shattering his nose. Instinctively, he let go of his weapon, and she slammed it into his temple, knocking him out.

Slade pushed himself upright, suitably impressed as she came back to him, collecting a pair of medical scissors to snip the zip ties.

“You take after your father, then,” he said, struggling to his feet. Once standing, he swayed but didn’t glance in Shado’s direction as she took a step forward, obviously about to offer help. She seemed to understand the message. They made an awkward pair, their pace slowed by Slade’s limp as he favored his injured leg. Shado carried the mercenary’s rifle, tucked under her arm as they moved as fast as possible through the camp.

Slade forced himself through the burning agony any movement caused, determined to make it out before any of Fyers' men came away from the fire. As they came around a corner, a figure, running in the other direction nearly collided with the two.

Shado immediately pulled up her rifle, gun swinging to bear. The gun barked and the mercenary fell. Slade bent to scoop up his fallen weapon, checking the chamber and flicking off the safety in one smooth movement.

They passed several more tents, fire shooting high in the sky behind them, it had certainly caught the mercenaries’ attentions, they ran into no one for several tents.

In fact, the first sign of any other person was when the Australian heard a half-shouted call of “Slade!” He recognized the voice immediately and turned towards that direction as a familiar figure, scraggly blonde hair vaulted over crates between tents, making a fast albeit careless approach. Seeing Yao Fei following behind, expression the picture of exasperated panic was nearly enough to drag a laugh out of him.

Shado spared a glance in his direction as Oliver reached them, seeing his lack of reaction towards the newcomer, she kept her gun lowered. The American looked uncertain of what to do, standing close, blue eyes fixed on the various bandages, several already stained with blood. As the Chinese archer joined them, Shado dropped her rifle, flinging herself forward to wrap her arms around him with a muffled sob of ‘Baba’! Slade ignored the both of them in favor of speaking to Oliver.

“You two set this up?” he asked, jerking his head back in the direction of the high flames, the American nodded, still more focused on Slade’s chest than his face. “Kid.” The blue eyes snapped up to his face, and he could see the flash of guilt, quickly hidden. “We need to get out of here.” _Get your head straight_. He didn’t know what caused him to take the subtler approach, but Oliver clearly got the message. They both looked over to Yao Fei and Shado, the former gesturing in one direction.

“The safest way,” he said. “Come.” He led the way, checking corners with an arrow set to his bow before fully moving around them. Shado followed directly after him, and Oliver, without even asking or giving the Australian a chance to argue, tucked himself against Slade’s side, the same as the leg that had been shot. His arm went around the other’s back and exhausted to resist, Slade slung his own over the American’s shoulders.

They made it out of camp without incident, and after that, vanishing into the forest was easy. The trek back to the fuselage, long and difficult as it was, passed by in a blur and Slade was barely conscious when the downed plane came into view. He was vaguely aware of Oliver helping him inside, fairly certain someone was on his other side as well. He didn’t remember dropping down onto his pallet or slipping out of consciousness.

 

A cricket chirped near his ear. At first, he ignored it, coming into full wakefulness gradually, senses feeling muddled and his body aching dully. The insect didn’t leave, the noise harsh and abrasive at such a close range.

He pushed himself up with a growl, startling the cricket away. It took him several minutes to gain his bearings and remember everything that had happened. Look down, Slade found the bandages were clean, with no signs of bloodstains. How heavy had he slept? Dark bruises blossomed around the white cloths, but none of them drew his attention.

The fuselage was empty, filled with the still sunlight of midafternoon. Pushing himself upright, Slade made his way over to the stack of lockers that made up the unofficial storage space. He reached down to the black duffel, unzipping it and pulling out a shirt which he pulled on over the bandages.

Restless, and curious to know what had happened during the past few hours since their escape that morning, Slade moved out of the plane, stepping into the clearing and looking about to see Oliver sitting cross-legged not far from the entrance. He made his way over, wet grass brushing his pant legs. It must have rained hard for a couple hours, the sky was clear now.

The American’s head came up from his work as Slade approached, and he was taken aback by the immense relief that Oliver didn’t even attempt to hide. His hands froze in their tasks of fletching the shafts laid out on his lap.

“You’re awake!” Slade lowered himself to sit on the log next to his younger companion, left knee bending stiffly but allowing the movement. Oliver took in the movement, concern flashing over his face. “How’s it healing?”

“It’s fine. You sound surprised,” he muttered, looking out across the clearing. “Where are the other two?” The fact that Yao Fei had a _daughter_ was still trying to find a place to register in his mind. At least, if her demonstration during their escape had proven anything, she could hold her own.

“Hunting,” Oliver replied. “We’ve been going out in pairs. There have been more patrols than before.” Something about the statement seemed strange, and Slade frowned, watching Oliver as he turned back to setting the feathers carefully.

“What do you mean, _we’ve been going out_?” he asked. “How many times is it necessary to hunt in one day?” Oliver’s hands stopped once again.

“Slade, it’s been three days,” it was strange hearing the words, and suddenly, the American’s reaction made much more sense. “A couple of your wounds got infected not long after we got back. You went into a fever and Shado mentioned…” he trailed off awkwardly, unwilling to finish the sentence. Slade took in the casual way Oliver said her name, apparently, they had all settled into the lifestyle fairly fast.

“Don’t plan on dying yet,” he said dismissively.

“You also punched Yao Fei,” Oliver added. Slade furrowed his brow, not remembering the action. “While you were unconscious,” the American added. “You made a noise and he walked over to check, leaning over and you hit him in the face.”

“No remorse.”

There was a laugh, quiet, as if he had almost forgotten how, but damn Slade realized he had missed the sound. That was another thing to add to Oliver’s list of idiotic habits, finding amusement at the most unexpected times. They both lapsed into a familiar silence, Slade staring into the trees, Oliver working steadily.

“We’ve a lot of work still,” the Australian said quietly, he spared a glance at his companion. “You up for it, kid?”

“Are you?” it wasn’t a challenge, it was a question. Simple, honest, concerned. Slade shrugged.

“I’ve made it through worse, things heal.”

“Does regret?” Oliver asked. Not understanding, the Australian merely looked at him.

“Don’t remember having any particular ones to heal,” he commented. “Unless you’ve got something on your mind.”

“You killed your old partner,” Oliver looked down the shaft, studying for far too long. “Do you regret that?” There was a hidden meaning behind the question, one that the American was obviously trying to keep hidden.

“Wintergreen used to be a good man,” Slade said slowly. “But I guess when it came down to it, he found more worth in pay than loyalty. Everyone makes their own choices, kid. Choice to stay, choice to betray, choice to save. When it comes down to it, its all on them. No one’s fault except their own.” He saw Oliver’s shoulders relax fractionally. Silence came again, and Slade found himself strangely relaxed, the sounds of the island coaxing and soft. Next to him, Oliver suddenly moved.

“Oh, I forgot,” he stood, vanishing into the fuselage quickly and Slade stared after him, wondering if the younger man meant for him to follow. A moment later, however, he exited again, carrying a dark bundle that he handed to the Australian. Curious, Slade took it, unwrapping the cloth. “I stopped by Fyers tent after I saw him go to check on the fire.”

The two swords shined in the sun, light reflecting off of the clean, polished blades. He drew one, feeling the familiar weight and giving it a few experimental twirls, naturally finding an ease with the weapon. Content, Slade sheathed it again.

“A sword always makes a good partner,” he announced. “Never had a single one turn against me.”

“I think you like those more than you like people,” Oliver replied with some amusement lining his words. Slade gave a low chuckle, pulling away the cloth see the other.

“What can I say? They’re great friends,” the Australian said.

“Would you really prefer to have those rather than a team?” Oliver asked, the question bordered on rhetorical, a lazy response to the banter they had fallen into.

“Well it depends,” Slade responded, tone still light. “Sometimes you find the right partner. The type of partner who’ll come back when you need help.” He paused, watching a bird wing across the sky. Someone you can really trust.” Oliver was looking at him again. “Sometimes you find a partner who’s worth the risk that an attachment could bring.”


End file.
